


pour a little salt, we were never here

by lachambre11



Category: Social Network (2010)
Genre: Angst, Completely Indulgent, Love Letters, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-04
Updated: 2012-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-30 14:44:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lachambre11/pseuds/lachambre11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five letters Eduardo wrote but never sent to Mark, plus one he actually did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	pour a little salt, we were never here

**Author's Note:**

> So. This is my first venture into TSN fic, a quiet obssession and new fandom of mine. Please, be kind, since this fic is un-beta-ed and written purely because I couldn't help myself.

**1.**

This is the moment. After I put the last final point on this letter, or whatever the hell this is, this is the moment that I’ll never look back.  
  
I’ll never look back, just like I’ll never forget the way you looked at me on that stupid hallway on that stupid house in Palo Alto and said ‘ _You’re gonna get left behind_ ’.

Just like I’ll forget all those nights at Kirkland with the bad movies, a small, reluctant smile etched on your face and the way it made me feel wonderful, knowing that I’d put it there. That I had earned it, that it was for me.

I’ll forget all those little things about you that made my hands itch to touch and pull closer; all those things that made me care so much for you. I’ll never stop trying to forget – the good things, the bad things, everything.

Because what’s the point of remembering all of them, Mark?

What was the point of me believing in you; of the way you looked at me sometimes, of the algorithm on the window, getting left behind, Christy setting shit on fire, the dissolution, the lawsuit, hell, everything?

What is the point of me remembering all those things when, while they were the very things that shaped me into the person I am today, four years later from the first day we met, they were, at best, just a footnote on _your_  story?

Where do I fit into your life?

Have I ever?

 **2.**  
  
I love you, you asshole.

There, I’ve said it.

I was in love with you for all those years, from the first awkward smile you shot my way, to the day I looked you in the eye and signed those settlement papers.

I was never capable of summoning up enough courage to tell you that, somehow the words always ended up getting stuck on my throat, tangled up on my lips.

And you – you never loved me back.

I’ve always known that. It was easy enough to see it, to accept it as the fact it was.

I was… I was a sure thing to you, I think. I was comfortable option, and I even think it was easy, eventually, to call me your best friend. To use the word as if you’d meant it, as if the sentiment was real, as if I meant something to you.

You used to say you don’t say things you don’t mean, but then I tend to get stuck on “ _I need you here_ ,” when you clearly didn’t. When you clearly don’t.

After everything was said and done, not only had I lost Facebook, and you, but also lost my two other best friends. And you, you seem to be doing just fine on your own; you even got Dustin and Chris to stick around for a while, so congratulations on that.

Maybe I was wrong when I said you only had one friend.

 **3.**  
  
I wanted  _everything_ with you.

I wanted to kiss you, and I wanted to fuck you into the mattress. I wanted to meet your parents, properly this time, and I wanted to see your body light up under my touch, to see your eyes comes alive and undone.

I wanted to whisper promises across your skin, to discover you in ways nobody’s ever got to. I wanted to lie in bed with a book while you coded, our feet tangled together under the comforter of our bed.

I wanted to fight with you, fight fair, and never care about winning. I wanted to card my fingers through your hair, even if you scowled and cursed at me for doing it. I wanted to see you rolling your eyes and mumble a fond  _Wardo_  across the table, after I badgered you about your eating habits.

I wanted to come home to you.

I wanted to be the home you could come to.

I wanted a house, yes, with a pool, and I wanted a couple of dogs. Terrible dogs, really, surely spoiled by Dustin and obedient only do Chris, but ours all the same. I might have even wanted a little girl with your eyes, your dimples, your cheeks.

I thought you had wonderful cheeks, planes of smooth, pale skin that I wanted to rest my head against, kiss a little; see it color against your better judgment.

I wanted to grow old with you, watching the changes in your face, in your body. I wanted to wake up with your smell on the sheets, and go to bed with your weight resting across the mattress of our bed.

I’ve never told anyone that. I never could.  And I don’t imagine wanting this with anyone else. Not even with you anymore, Mark.

You took this from me, the ability to want all those things. To trust and love someone enough to long for this. You took it, and I let you.  
  
There’s a quiet comfort on knowing that, in my heart, I’ve lived this wonderful, imagined life with you, with the dogs, and the house, and the children.

In my heart, those things have come and passed, and now that I’ve finally let myself tell you this, maybe I can get new dreams, realistic ones. Because I’m so fucking tired of hoping and wanting and wishing for impossible things.

So this - these are the things I wish for you, Mark:

A life filled with laughter, accomplishment and love.

Someone who understands you, a companion and a partner in crime.

Someone who grounds you, but who also is brave enough to let you fly, secure enough to know that you’ll eventually come back.  
  
Someone you be ridiculous with, someone who can make you smile until your cheeks hurt. 

Someone that can be for you everything I’ve always wanted to be.

Someone that makes you spectacularly happy, Mark.

In the end, this is the thing I wish you the most.

 **4.**  
  
I think I figured out what I can want for myself now, Mark.

I think my life will be an adventure, the kind of life that’s filled with stories to share, filled with laughter and photographs and memories. I’ll be free, independent, of all the things that stopped me before.

No more holding back, no more living up to the expectations placed on the shoulders of the Saverin boy. There will be none of that.

I think I’ll learn to speak several languages and visit several minuscule cities in obscure countries, just because I can. I’ll fall in love with places, and cultures, and maybe I’ll find a city somewhere exotic, I think, and settle down. Buy a cat, build a business, and find some friends.

Somewhere where I can start over, where I’m just Eduardo, and not the co-founder of Facebook, the guy who sued his ex-best friend for 600 million dollars.

I won’t be Eduardo Saverin. I won’t even get to be Wardo ever again.

How wonderful does that sound to you, Mark? Because it sounds pretty amazing to me.

Just Eduardo.

I think I’ll like that.

 **5.**  
  
As for falling in love again, well, I don’t think it’s in the cards for me.

Not now, probably not ever. And it’s not like I’m broken, or ruined, or something ridiculous like that.

I just don’t think I’ll ever meet someone who will make want to do absurd things like invest 19 thousand dollars on an idea, or someone who can tease me about chickens, or who will even look at me from across the room and just  _get it_.

I’m a firm believer of the whole you-have-one-great-love thing, and I think that, as much as it wasn’t reciprocated, or even possible within the realms of reality, well; you were kind of  _it_ for me, Mark.

I’m only a bit reluctant of admitting that now, you know.

I think it helped, somehow, writing all those things to you. I think I might be finally getting to a place where I can miss you, our friendship, and not feel ashamed for that. I think I’ll always carry our past around with me, but maybe it won’t have to feel like a weight on my shoulder, dragging me down, but more like a friendly ghost? I might even call it Casper.

But I do think it’s time to let go, to finally and truly let you go.

So here it goes, Mark. One last time:

I loved you.

You betrayed me.

I forgive you.

Goodbye.

  
  
 **\+ 1.**

I’m listening now, Mark.

I know you’re not nineteen anymore. The same goes for me. I have no idea how you’ve gotten my letters when I never meant to send them in the first place, when I’m sure I never mailed them at all, but I think Dustin might have been involved in orchestrating the whole thing. I would kill him if I wasn't so happy in the first place.

But it was nice, reading all those things you had to say. And yes, I know you might prefer emails to this, but I do think it’s kind of poetic, even more  _real_ this way. And I like it when you call me; of course I do, because I’m listening now, Mark, and it feels good, to know that you’re listening as well.

I still think there’s a long way to go. Those dreams I wrote to you about, the new ones I dreamed for myself, they still are a constant fixture on my mind. I still want a life filled with adventure, exotic places, photographs and memories, I do.

But yes, as you asked me in your last letter, the new dreams don’t necessarily cancel out the old ones anymore. If there’s one person in this world that I have faith into finding a way to make those two overlap, well, that person is you.

I would even invest some money on it.

(Too soon? ;)

See you in two weeks.  I’ll be the guy wearing a suit while anxiously standing around the baggage claim, wearing a huge, head-over-heels smile on my face and a bouquet of white roses on my hand.

I’m mostly kidding about the roses.

But the smile is pretty much guaranteed. And so is the suit.

Love,

_Wardo_ .


End file.
